


this fresh morning (in this broken world)

by hissingmiseries



Series: parallel universes [3]
Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: Character Study, Coming Out, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Is This How Rebellions Work?, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, One Shot, Politics, Post-Season/Series 01, Rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 21:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19118029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hissingmiseries/pseuds/hissingmiseries
Summary: Allie curls into him, slightly; she's trembling. Grizz lets his chin drop onto the top of her head and all he can smell is smoke, dirty and acrid and ever-present. "You need a shower," he sighs.She huffs, with no mirth. "I need a Xanax."Outside, the town is in pieces. Everything is black and some bits are still smoking, awful little thin streams rising up into the air. "Yeah," he considers. "That too."(Or: the one in which New Ham burns.)





	this fresh morning (in this broken world)

**Author's Note:**

> and here we conclude this little trilogy! thank you so much for all the kudos/comments/bookmarks, i didn't expect for a second these fics would even get looked at or that so many people would even watch this show. it's been so much fun writing for it! this is the final fic of this little series, hence why it's so effing _long_.
> 
> follows a few weeks after the events of _stay around for the strangeness_ , i'd recommend reading the previous two fics in this series otherwise this one probably won't make sense. centres more around the group dynamics as a whole as the rebellion occurs, but still heavy focus on grizz/sam and their little family. limited pov from mostly grizz throughout; any details (i.e. birthdays) that aren't made clear in the show are made up. also has a much darker tone than the previous two fics, hence the _m_ rating.
> 
>  
> 
>  **contains:** canon-typical themes (politics, violence, etc.), canon relationships. heavy focus on rebellion and all the mess that comes with it. **implied minor character death**. reoccurring themes of homophobia, internalized homophobia. reference to domestic violence, very briefly implied non-con. mentions of disordered eating; untreated ptsd symptoms. alcohol/drug usage as coping mechanisms, w/ side effects. campbell is a dick.
> 
> spoilery notes at the end.

 

 

 

 

Grizz says, "Shit." His face is all twisted up, dark and tired, like lines carved into a rock face by wind and weather. "Weird to think, isn't it: once upon a time, there was a civilisation here."

Allie shrugs, hands in her pockets. "Once upon a time, there was another universe. What are we going to do about that?" Now, technically, they are New Ham's lost, ragged kids. Technically, the fire shouldn't have spread as fast as it did—the wind was blowing east and it even rained at one point, icy sheets of the stuff. But let's not pretend things have ever really followed the rules around here. Grizz is under no such illusion.

He has a headache.

Smoke inhalation does that to you. 

"It puts things into perspective a bit, doesn't it," he says. 

Allie curls into him, slightly; she's trembling. Grizz lets his chin drop onto the top of her head and all he can smell is smoke, dirty and acrid and ever-present. "You need a shower," he sighs. Like he can talk. There is so much ash in his hair that he could probably pass for a pensioner.

She huffs, with no mirth. "I need a Xanax."

Outside, the town is in pieces. Everything is black and some bits are still smoking, awful little thin streams rising up into the air. "Yeah," he considers. "That too."

 

-

 

> _The greatest gains and values are farthest from being appreciated. We easily come to doubt if they exist. We soon forget them. They are the highest reality. Perhaps the facts most astounding and most real are never communicated by man to man. The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched._
> 
> "Walden", **Henry David Thoreau**

 

_-_

 

**one.**

 

New Ham is fine. It's weird, because it's not home. But everything's weird, so that makes everything normal, kind of. Everything smells different. The streets are differently shaped.

Even the air feels different.

That's okay, Sam thinks. It would be really weird if the air was the same: that would mean the smell would still be there, and the nausea, and the sense of dread creeping into his stomach as each day passed. And like— _Sam_ is replaceable, he knows that. But you wouldn't think a whole-ass town would be.

"Hey," Kelly says, "you want a drink?"

Sam nods,  _okay_ , and they do shots and don't talk about: a) how he's gay but somehow has a baby; b) how there's very obviously something going on between him and Grizz but nobody really mentions it because y'know, Eden exists; and c) the fact that his not-boyfriend kind of started a rebellion and it was like, borderline serious until Luke joined in and now there's a very good chance that Campbell is going to lock them all up in a wine cellar when he inevitably finds out.

It's a disaster waiting to happen. All of it.

Sam is usually an optimist, but this is trying. Even the Grizz part of it, which is probably the one upside of this whole sorry mess, because Grizz Visser was the best thing to ever happen to Sam's heart. In more ways than one: in the whole fireworks and glitter and rainbows way, sure, but also that quiet drowning way; where it sneaks up on you and pulls you under suddenly, sucked into currents stirring beneath his ribcage, filled with sharks and alligators and all sorts of shit. 

This was all a lot easier a few months ago.

A few months ago, Allie was running the ship and people weren't holding their breath every minute of every day.

Sam does shots and goes home and passes out next to Grizz, who is already asleep because planning a rebellion is tough work, or whatever. Becca has Eden, and the stars are up and things are actually peaceful for once. Nothing is on fire and nobody is screaming.

 

He feeds Eden her mashed-up banana and changes her outfit because he's a professional at this father shit by now. He looks a bit dead, but not that dead. It's fine. It's New Ham; everybody looks at least a little bit dead. He's still in good shape, though. He's hitting all the notes he needs to in this life.

Grizz smiles at him and kisses his cheek, ruffles his hair:  _morning._

Sam says,  _hello_ , and offers him his plate of toast.

"Ooh, burnt to a crisp," Grizz says, inspecting his breakfast with a frown. "Delicious."

 _The toaster's on the counter,_  Sam tells him.  _You know how to use it._

Grizz smirks and swoops down, kisses him again, on his forehead this time. "Why would I, when I've got my own personal chef?" and Sam is beaming, just like that.

Things are good. They're great. New Ham is—functioning. Not the best, but. The world is still turning, the sun still rises and sets and things are just. Really good.

 

It's fine. Sam is fine.

 

-

 

Grizz is a little off the rails.

 

No, that's not fair— _off the rails_ is a bit hasty. He was way worse when he was one of The Guard, new to power and new to popularity. Back when he had Allie to keep him out of trouble, but now he doesn't, so he's got to watch his own ass. 

The meetings are still going on. Biweekly, now. It's basically its own committee: The Committee For Kicking Campbell Eliot's Ass. All of them sat around Sam's dining table, drinking coffee and eating mushy eggs and burnt toast and saying,  _well what are we gonna do now?_ , which is really annoying because it's not like Grizz has the answer. 

It feels weird not having his jacket. He almost misses it. 

Now he wears his old blue Gap hoodie, or the green Nike one of Sam's that Eden sicked up on. 

 

Becca said, "you can move in, if you like," underlined with _Sam wants you to stay_ , which is the best thing Grizz's ears have heard so far in his entire lifetime; he's been unofficially living there for weeks now but that made it a  _thing_. Made it into something real, tangible. The two of them as halves of each other, Sam-and-Grizz, Grizz-and-Sam: always a pair.

People are starting to talk.

The Guard definitely know. Grizz trusts that Luke hasn't told them, he's good like that. There was a sincerity in his voice, in the curve of his eyes. Luke doesn't lie easily. He doesn't enjoy it.

(In another universe, Grizz would probably, like,  _care._

But this is this universe; he has Sam, and Eden and Becca and those dining table meetings in the mornings where the snowdrifts pile up outside and the sun soaks everything in that pure, crystal light only the winter months can bring. A lot of the time, when everybody is still waking up and smelling the coffee brewing, they just sit in silence and watch the way the sky shifts from blue to orange to pink, dawn seeping through the way you fall in love: slowly, slowly, then all at once.

It's probably the only moment of peace they get in this crazy, upside-down world.)

Gordie knows too. And Kelly. And—maybe Campbell? Which is terrifying.

He was on the farm with Sam, pulling up carrots when Campbell was just there, all of a sudden. He does that a lot: appears like a phantom, double-taking to make sure it's actually him and not a bad dream. They weren't  _doing_ anything, but Campbell had that look on his face that just, turned Grizz's blood to ice.

Campbell has that effect on a lot of people, nowadays.

Grizz especially.

Which is stupid, because it's not like Grizz is doing anything that would make him a target.

Except—those meetings are kind of illegal, and sometimes it's like poking a sleeping bear when they walk down the street together or Grizz dares to whisper something in Sam's ear that makes him grin, this big stupid thing that unfurls across his face before he can stop it.

 

It's such bullshit.

Grizz spent so long in the old world scared that somebody would find out.

He's not about to be scared in this one, too.

 

-

 

It's like, when Allie got locked up, all of her skill as a leader went to Grizz. Because Grizz knows what to say; he doesn't like it, not at all. Having all those eyes on him, hanging onto his every word. It sucks. But he can definitely do it; it takes courage to stand in front of a group and rally them up but he does it anyway.

Now— now, it's becoming more of an issue.

Now, when Grizz talks about his plan and how they're going to try and reclaim New Ham from the shit it's in right now, people are actually listening. They're taking him seriously.

Now, there's a chance it might actually fucking work.

 

-

 

First point of action: go to see Harry.

Kelly's idea, unsurprisingly. She'd cornered him after the last meeting and took his hand and said  _please, Grizz, he needs help too_ , and it's not like the entire town doesn't owe Kelly a few favours. She did save everyone from dying a few months ago, after all.

 

Luke lets him in. The room is dark, curtains half-drawn.

Harry looks—

—he looks rough.

He looks like he's been crying a lot.

 

"I'm sorry," Harry says. He's staring out the window, his eyes red and mournful. The world stretches out below him.

Standing in the doorway, Grizz says, "I know we weren't—friends or anything, but I'm worried about you."

"You mean Kelly's worried about me." His breath hitches at her name, an audible sad sound low in his throat. "Did she send you or something?"

Grizz steps forward, into the light; the room is a mess, dust particles suspended in the air like spirits and beer bottles littered around everywhere. "It's not a bad thing to have people care about you." Thinks about Sam, about the colour of his hair in the sunlight, the freckles on his arms. That gentle concern in his eyes, late at night. "That's all anyone can do, anymore."

"We're out of things to live for," he says, dully, looking away.

Everything smells like sweat and sadness. Grizz twists his mouth and frowns. "That sounds a lot like giving up."

Harry raises his head to look at him, still empty-eyed, still in withdrawal. A bruise has blossomed on his left cheekbone, bright and livid like a splash of blue paint. "I guess."

"I'm going to go out a limb," Grizz sighs, "and say this is the drugs talking."

"This is  _everything_ talking." It comes out as something low and guttural: dehydration and anger and bone-deep tiredness. 

It's the third Sunday of the first December in New Ham, and everything is falling apart, and both of them are ridiculously out of their depths trying to lead. Like, up to their necks. Grizz folds his arms across his chest and says, "It doesn't need to be like this," treading carefully as if the wrong words will light the gas and the whole room will just explode. "Things aren't too far gone. Not by any means."

Harry flinches, just a little. " _Cassandra."_

There is so much hurt in his voice; it rings out in the silence.

Grizz's hands feel numb. "Okay," he says. "Point taken."

 

That night, Grizz can't look Sam in the eyes. He pushes food around his plate and makes awkward stilted conversation about the weather, and he fucking hates it because this is  _Sam_ , who has only ever been another piece of him.

He shoves his plate away, says, "I'm done," and leaves.

Sam follows him out; it's  _Sam_ , after all.

 _Hey_ , he says. A hand flies up to Grizz's cheek, settles beneath his eye.  _Grizz, what's—_

"Harry is so fucked," he whispers. " _So_ fucked." Winter has drawn the darkness into mid-afternoon; outside, the sky is pitch black and the moon barely a sliver amongst the moth-bite stars. He thinks about how Harry's hands had shaken; sad and electric and he wasn't thinking about New Ham or being a mayor, just about where his next hit was coming from.

He might be crying. Sam's thumb wipes something from his cheek.

"I'm not built for this," he continues. "I'm not Allie. I'm not Cassandra. This isn't the right time."

 _Is there ever a right time,_ Sam says. He looks up, catches his eyes; the pause is notable because neither of them breathe in.  _There's never going to be a right time._

Grizz shakes his head, he hates how he cries so easily—at everything, at being given a book to read on a camping trip. And yet he never cried when his parents went missing—it would have hurt too much. They feel like tiny little daggers digging into the backs of his eyelids, a shower of arrows: "Sam, I—"

Sam's crying too, a little. His eyes have gone all glassy.  _People trust you. I trust you._

He thinks of all the damage this town has taken, all the mess they have seen, this is not the thing he should be crying about. He drops his head onto Sam's shoulder and soaks it through nonetheless.

Arms wrap around him, steady and warm. Just for a moment, Grizz lets himself believe that he's strong.

 

-

 

The next night:

He dreams about woodland, running blindly through bracken and thornbushes; then he forces himself awake to find Sam sitting upright in bed beside him, wearing old sweats.

 _Hey_ , he murmurs.  _I've got you._

There is sweat on his brow, in his hair. He's all clammy and shaky, fists balled up in the duvet.

Eden is fast asleep in her crib, snoozing away. Sam is all long pale limbs and hair in the darkness; Grizz can smell coffee, it takes a second for his eyes to adjust and for him to realise there is a mug clamped between Sam's hands, the heat leeching into his skin.

It's late, or early. Time doesn't exist in moments like this: it kind of feels like he's been catapulted headfirst into another galaxy or something, where the world doesn't spin and nothing is truly real.

Sam watches him get his bearings, eyes wide.

Grizz reaches upwards and presses his lips to Sam's. For the first time in what feels like a hundred years, there is no rebellion or Campbell or Dewey sitting in the back of his mind; it is wiped clean, empty, free of anything but Sam.

They break apart.

Grizz says, "It's a terrible idea, isn't it."

Sam nods, so-so. Then he slips down beneath the covers and curls himself into Grizz: he smells like stress and laundry powder and soil, like he watered the plants before he came to bed.

This is how they stay, until morning seeps through their window, and brings them back to reality.

 

"Seriously, though," he says, "why me?"

These late-night conversations are interesting when both of them are running on anxiety and overstimulated and frayed at the edges. Snow flurries down in whirlwinds outside; they lie together on the couch, their fingers laced together and mingling like armies on a front line.

The skin around Grizz's eyes feels tight. He thinks, he can't remember the last night he slept properly.

Sam's hands work slowly, meandering, thoughtful.  _It makes sense_ , he signs.  _At least to me. You look like a leader._

"What about Allie?" He probably shouldn't be asking this, because Grizz wasn't around for when everything went down and Allie got arrested. There must be details missing, he must sound ignorant. "What if people don't—" A lump sticks in his throat, the size of a snooker ball. "What if she doesn't want to lead anymore? What if she _does_?"

His smile is all soft, dopey with sleepiness.   _There won't be a competition, if that's what you're worried about. She's your friend._

Maybe Grizz is like, the Robin to Allie's Batman—or he could be, at least. Will has that role at the minute. But Will is shattered and it's hard to build yourself back up, y'know? Especially once Campbell has gotten hold of you. "I keep thinking she'll just, appear one day." Grizz sighs. "I'm sorry I wasn't—" he thinks,  _I should have been there when everything happened._

Sam says,  _you couldn't have known._

Grizz doesn't say anything. It feels like he's making excuses when he nods

Birds are singing outside the window. Sharp and jaunty, screechy. Sam tilts his head up and sees the look on Grizz's face, says,  _we needed the land. You were doing your job._

"I guess." It kind of hurts to say it.

_What do you mean?_

He bites his lip like he's scared of something falling out. "You think I could have stopped them if I were here," he muses. "The Guard?"

Sam's shoulders are stiff.  _There's no point thinking like that._

Grizz says, "I know." Because he does; this is how the past works, it stays etched in eternity. But he can't help but wonder. 

He reaches out, pulls Sam's head to his chest, ear to heartbeat. Sam chuckles,  _you're such a sap_ , like he isn't one too.

 

-

 

They're in the kitchen, just past lunchtime (Grizz cooked bacon extra-crispy, like how Sam likes it). They're giggling; the air is bright and easy and nothing hurts. 

Eden squirms in Grizz's arms. She's big, now—six months, nearly seven, dressed in denim overalls and looking at Grizz like he puts the stars in the sky, like he hung the moon. Sam's in a chair at the table, chin on his hands: he loves watching this, partly because he still feels like Eden is made of glass (and, maybe Grizz, too) and he needs to stay nearby, partly because this is a vision he has secretly yearned for ever since Eden was born. Some impossible scene in the back of his mind, playing out in front of him like one of those dreams you don't want to wake up from.

There's a knock at the door.

Grizz hands Eden over to Sam,  _here_ , and goes to answer it.

Luke is there. Grizz smiles, but Luke's mouth is a straight line and—

"Dude," he says. He's trembling, or maybe it's the wind. "Campbell wants to see you." Then, quieter: "He's  _here_."

Grizz swallows. He's not going to throw up.

All the light floods out of the room; Sam retreats into the corner, wrapped around Eden like a weed. He says,  _don't let him see your neck_ , because there are little red hickeys lining the length of his throat and he's only wearing a t-shirt, the collar loosened with age. It just takes a close eye, a quick thought.

"Keep Eden close," he retorts, wryly; nobody is getting near Eden. Sam told him about that time he went upstairs and Campbell was there, holding her. It had made his stomach knot like ivy.

This is, of course, Sam's intention.

 _He's going to try and scare you,_ he says.  _Be careful._

It's weird—Campbell's only eighteen, barely. His name shouldn't be being whispered like an urban legend, like saying it might summon him into existence.

 

Grizz fucking  _hates_ Campbell Eliot. He is all out of proportion, even for The Guard—just shy of normal, just not quite right.

He takes a deep breath when he walks in.

Campbell's gaze is sharp, snake-eyes deadly. "Morning, Grizz," he beams, smile so fake it could be plastic. "You look chirpy."

Grizz tries to school his face into, well,  _anything_. "What do you want, Campbell?" (The last time he was this close to him, he had soil smeared over his hands and Allie was being shoved into the back of  a car. She was bleeding.)

"I just thought I'd drop in on my baby brother and my little niece." He's walking around, picking things up, touching things; knowing exactly what he's doing, leaving fingerprints on every piece of bric-and-brac, marking his territory. Then, "It's not good news, boys, sorry." His voice reflects nothing of the sort. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling sick, feeling scared. "Did we do something, or—"

"Those little meetings of yours," Campbell says, knowingly. "They need to stop."

It's not that Grizz didn't think he'd ever find out; he knew that he would. In fact, he's amazed they've gone on this long. They've become careless, lately: leaving all at once, keeping the blinds open. Opening the back door to let the smoke from burnt toast out and inviting all ears to overhear. It's that he didn't think it feel like this: like he's found their buried treasure, or something. Like Campbell's just uncovered their deepest secrets. The shiver that runs through him—god. He shouldn't have this much power. 

Sam steps forward; calmly, elegantly, surreptitiously. Grizz remembers, again, that Sam has been playing this game for a very long time.  _It's not illegal,_ he signs,  _to talk to people, Campbell._

"How's she doing, Sam?" Campbell asks. Eden is all big eyes and childhood ignorance. "She's grown. Must be, what, six months now."

 _She's fine_ , he replies. Lightly, carefully.  _She's—she puts things in her mouth a lot. Toys and stuff._

He chuckles—this gross, slimy thing. "Well, it's lucky you've got this fine figure of a man to look after you both." Two arms clap on either of Grizz's shoulders; the owner's voice is mild-mannered, masked. It's not a threat, simply a statement of fact.  _I know what's going on here._

Grizz's pause is infinitesimal before he smirks. "Just doing my duty." 

"Your duty," Campbell echoes. "Didn't you—didn't you  _leave_ The Guard?" As if he doesn't know.

That shuts Grizz up, makes his heart take a plunge into his stomach. 

 _I don't know what The Guard are doing nowadays,_ Sam pipes up,  _but it isn't what you call duty._

Campbell glares at him. Grizz thinks he's going to be sick: it lasts for half a minute. Just, eerie fucking silence. Sam doesn't even flinch.

"They're doing their jobs, Sammy," he eventually says. Something in Sam's face darkens:  _don't call me that._ "And you know what they don't need?" He shuffles forward, closer to Grizz. "They don't need people making their jobs harder by scheming behind their backs."

Grizz locks his fingers behind his back, swallows. Hard. "What makes you think we're scheming?"

Campbell's eyes are two bullet holes when he says, "Harry came to me. He had a lot to say."

He has never been this afraid in all of his life. He's so  _tired_ , goddamnit, he's fucking  _done_ playing nice. 

"Harry?" Grizz echoes; he's good at playing dumb, done it for years. Every time his mother gave him a funny look, every time his dad shoved a football into his hands and said, go on kid, have a go. "What's he got to do with anything?"

This isn't the end of the world, this isn't a war yet; but his heart is racing and Campbell has a finger pressed into the dip in his chest. "I think you know exactly what."

"No," he says. "I really don't."

 _We haven't seen Harry in ages,_ Sam adds; he's nervous, the jagged edges to his words give him away. 

Grizz should say something. He should say: _Harry needs to come off the drugs._ Should say: _you're killing him with what you're doing._ Should say: _he's no use to anybody in that state_. But then it strikes him that maybe that is exactly what Campbell wants and Grizz can't breathe, let alone speak.

Campbell looks between them. That fake cheerfulness snaps back onto his face like a recoil. "Well, you're definitely up to something," he fucking  _beams._ "And I don't take kindly to people stepping on my toes, soooo—"

A glance at Eden, small but noticeable. Sam visibly tenses.

"I want you to stop the meetings."

And then he's gone.

The door shuts with a click.

 

 

Grizz sinks back onto a chair. Eden looks between the two men in her life with silent curiosity.

"Fuck," he breathes.

Sam is there like a shot; all flustered, hands tugging at Grizz's shirt collar and shoulders and face like he's scouring him for marks.  _You okay?_

He shakes his head. "No. Yeah," he says. "I mean, I can fake it."

 _I'm sorry_. Grizz's stomach feels like something just died inside of it, which means it must be a thousand times worse for Sam. He has a  _daughter_ , for fuck's sake.

Grizz wonders if the house now stinks of beer, like how Campbell's breath always smells. " _I'm_ sorry," he retorts, shaking. "I, um, put the keys in the top drawer. From now on, that door stays locked and bolted and nobody comes in without being invited."

Sam blinks at him.

"For your safety," he continues. "For Eden's."

Sam leans down and kisses Grizz's cheek but he's unsteady, trembling.  _You're really impossibly sweet_ , he mouths.

"Shut up," Grizz says, kissing him back. "I need a coffee."

 

-

 

This is horrible, but more than anything, Grizz misses his pets. At least his mum fell in love, once upon a time; at least his dad earned good money and wasn't a total douchebag.

Daisy was just a hamster: she probably didn't know enough to wonder where Grizz had gone. Wellington was  _Wellington_ , he would have cried for days.

 

-

 

Second point of action: Luke.

 

Luke is drinking, as usual. He does that a lot nowadays.

Grizz knocks twice on the door and walks in.

"Hey," Luke says, looking up; he's tipsy enough to not notice, or maybe not care about, how ridiculous it is that Grizz just walked into The Guard HQ without a second thought. The bottle dangles from his hand. "Wanna drink?" He's wearing his jacket again—it doesn't suit him.

"Not really," Grizz says. "But sure." His fingers brush against Luke's as he takes the bottle: cheap vodka, the type of stuff you can clean toilets with. "Campbell came to see me today."

Luke's eyes are all guilt, slow and sad. "Yeah, he told me." Then, quieter, "I told him to do it."

The idea of meeting Luke's eyes makes Grizz's bones turn to glass, so painful he takes a swig to avoid it. The liquor is so strong it feels like it's burning his tastebuds off. It makes him wince.

Luke smirks. "It's all the store had left."

"I can see why," Grizz murmurs, peering at the label. He is good at exploring and finding land; Luke is good at being a two-faced little shit. They work well together. "I'm going to hope and pray that sending Campbell to me was part of the plan."

The jock sighs. "Need to keep up the pretence, right," he drawls.

"He gives me the creeps." He passes the bottle back, already beginning to see double. "There's something in his eyes, that just— in fact, it's the opposite. There's nothing in them. That's even scarier."

The clock reads nearly six o'clock, dinnertime. Luke's shift starts at half-past, positioned outside of Lexie's house like a gargoyle but there's no way he could guard anything in this state. "He freaking _hates_ you, man," he says. "Talks about you all the time; you and Sam."

Grizz stiffens. "What does he say about Sam?"

Overgrown auburn hair falls into his eyes when he shakes his head. "You don't really wanna know, dude." Another sip; the corners of his mouth contort downwards in a grimace.

On the one hand, he really fucking does. He wants to know every gross detail of what Campbell wants to do to Grizz can do it back to him, ten times worse, a thousand times worse. Skin-peeling, eyeball-gouging, you name it. But on the other hand— "No, I really don't." He sits down on the armchair opposite; his eyelids feel heavy. "Sometimes I forget he has a brain cell." 

Luke blinks at him. "He's smarter than he looks, the asshole," he admits. "You know—if he was actually the leader, like, the  _real_ leader of this place—I don't think anybody would touch him. It's only because he's hiding behind Harry and Lexie that we have a chance."

Grizz thinks about it, for a moment. "Maybe," he says. "He knows people don't like him."

"Nobody has ever liked him," Luke retorts. "That didn't stop him."

 _It'll be his downfall, though,_ Grizz thinks, seeing the knowledge in Luke's eyes, too. "He has a weak point somewhere, Luke. We just have to find it."

Things go quiet for a minute—not silent for the gentle whir of the television in the background, which has been playing some bad eighties movie for the past half-an-hour. The Guard's HQ looks exactly how you'd expect a house occupied entirely by teenage jocks to look. 

"Hey," Luke then says, unsteady, quietly;  _guilty._ "Sorry about Campbell. I just— I didn't want him to get suspicious, y'know?"

Grizz waves a dismissive hand. The anger from that experience has faded away, replaced with something more solid and serene. "Don't worry about it. I would have done the same."

The drink has loosened Luke up a bit, shook him awake. He begins, out of nowhere, "You're—if this gets ugly, which I hope it won't, but if it does—I'll be on your side. You know that." He stops for a moment, caught up in the truth of it all; but he's started now, it's too late to wave it off. Plus, alcohol really does relax the tongue. "You and me and everybody in that kitchen, all of us against the rest of this town. I've got your back, Grizz."

"Careful," Grizz says, smiling. In pain, but smiling nonetheless. "That's a little close to treason, Luke."

"Like what I've been doing for the past month hasn't been?" he shoots back; the light is dim, but Grizz thinks that he might be smiling too.

They share a laugh. It's—not really a laugh. Too clipped, too cautious of all they know is coming.

 

"I'm gonna need you, Luke," he admits. "To look after us all. You know just as well as I do how rough those guys get whenever they have the high ground."

Luke watches him with careful eyes, soft with drunkenness and old memories. Grizz thinks, he easily could have fancied him in a different universe. One where the stars align a little differently and the sun rises in the west instead.

"You looked after me on the field, didn't you?" he says, and it sounds like a promise. "Sixteen, new quarterback? I can look after you, now."

 

-

 

Grizz was sixteen, too, when Luke was. New to the school, a transfer student. The coach had said, "So you two should get along like a house on fire." He stopped, considered the both of them. "Please don't burn anything down."

They went out onto the field together; it was early, the sky that light baby-blue and the clouds wispy and sparse. Luke was gangly back then—he hadn't grown any muscle, just a long lanky stream of paleness. 

It was weird, the new quarterback being such a shrimp.

Grizz stood on the grass and transferred his weight from foot to foot, watching his teammates run lines back and forth. "So," he said.

"I don't know anybody here," Luke said, quietly. "It's literally my second day at this school."

He thought about the game they'd played the week before, where one of the guys had dislocated his shoulder and another's leg had snapped so cleanly, it was as if somebody had gone through the bone with a chef's knife. "You'll be fine," he said, not unkindly. "If you can run fast and kick in a straight line, you'll be better than half the guys here."

Luke smirked, a little in awe. "Fair enough." 

A whistle blew, somewhere. Grizz looked down at the little runt and asked, "What brings you to West Ham, then?"

"Parents divorced." He didn't even blink. It was clear he'd told this story enough times for it to be as bland and detached as reporting on the weather. "Me and my mom came here a few weeks ago. The typical thing, I guess: fresh start and everything."

(This would be useless information until everybody's parents disappeared, and Luke spent the entire first week thinking about his dad for the first time in over a year.

Thinking about where his dad was, who he was with now. 

If he even knew his son was missing. If he even cared.)

A dimple appeared between Grizz's eyebrows, his mouth twisted to the side. "Shit, man," he said. "That sucks."

"Yeah." Luke's eyes fell to the floor, he started kicking at the grass in the same way Grizz did that one time, when the coach caught him and gave him such a ball-busting lecture it was like looking into a hairdryer for twenty minutes. "It's, er—it's fine. Just knocked us sideways a bit."

Grizz frowned; he didn't really know what to say, so he did what he always does when he doesn't know what to say. " _Challenges are gifts that force us to search for a new center of gravity. Don't fight them. Just find a new way to stand_."

It took a second, but Luke blinked up at him. "Shakespeare?"

"Oprah Winfrey," Grizz said. "So—basically, yeah."

 

-

 

It's been seven months since Allie and Will were arrested. Grizz wonders if they're even still alive, sometimes. If they've starved to death in that wine cellar. Or if Lexie's let them go on the sly, sent them out into the woods like freeing a pet: maybe he should send out a search party

Sam says,  _I think they might be dead_ , one day.

Grizz breathes out. Picks at his sandwich until it is just crumbs. "Yeah."

 _It's horrible._ He looks so sad; it doesn't suit him. Everybody looks so sad nowadays. _If they've_ _been down there for so long._

The sky is the colour of gravel, of the concrete on the roads, clouds pregnant with snow. It could be dusk if they weren't so used to it.

"I don't think they're in the wine cellar," he says. Sam's ears snap up, his eyes sharpen: this is news. "Luke said something about—I think—I dunno. He said it was nice to be able to use his cellar again." It had been a throwaway comment, barely even noticed until Grizz had gotten home that night and something in his brain had gone  _hang on._ "He's been drinking a lot. There were all these wine bottles everywhere, last time I went to see him, and—" He trails off, meets Sam's gaze. "Yeah."

It could be good news or bad news; they don't know. Sam bites his lip.  _Grizz—_

"I have to go," he lies, making a show of checking his phone for a reminder that isn't there. "I'm on gardening duty."

 

(They've been kind of—separate recently. It isn't anything big, but like. It's the last thing Grizz needs right now.

 

Grizz was put back on Guard duty after he came home. Like, the next day. He texted Sam about it during his shift, laughing.

 _Fuck this timing_ , he got back, with the laughing-crying emoji because of course. Of course they would barely get a single moment together; of course every time they even came close the universe would fuck them over.

He couldn't even be bitter: this is all he'd get, because he sure as hell didn't deserve Sam. Not after the shit he put him through during baby-gate.

If the universe wanted to take Sam from him, well, it could do its fucking best. Grizz had found them all land  _and_ fresh water  _and_ fish  _and_ turkeys—he was going to keep the guy he loves.

 

Quitting The Guard just seemed like the right thing to do. It was pretty clear they were all snuggly in Lexie's pocket; even Luke was gritting his teeth, flowing along with the current. It would be hard enough to stand to be in the same room as them, never mind following orders.

There were no rules against it. It was almost better if they were on different teams: they'd have no hold over him, couldn't threaten him with sanctions or anything like that. He could go back to catching up on everything he missed out on when he was in the woods—Eden's laugh, the weight of her in his arms. You know, the important things.

 

Eden was barely bigger than a squash. She sat between them like she was really theirs.

Grizz was welling up. He had been so tired, so hungry for so long. It felt nice to sit down and breathe for once.

Tiny fists grabbed at his sweater. Sam pressed his forehead against Grizz's, tangled their fingers together. Held on tight.

"Stuck with me now," Grizz whispered.

 _Please_ , Sam said.  _Like I'd ever let you go._ )

 

-

 

"Sam," Becca says, later on. "You love him?"

 _Yeah_ , Sam signs.  _More than most things._

It's risky, but she tries it anyway. "More than Eden?"

Sam stretches his legs out along the carpet and glances at her.  _He'd never make me choose_ , he replies.  _That's how I know._

 

-

 

Eden gets a cold the week before Christmas. Her nose gets all stuffy and her face goes red and when Becca places a hand to her forehead, it's like touching a hot stove. "Somebody call Gordie," she says, scooping her up. "Tell him we're coming."

 

"She'll be fine," Gordie says. The med centre is very white and sterile but he's still the same kind Gordie, dressed in a loose shirt and his hair falling to his shoulders. "There's nothing much you can give her, what with her being so young. The Advil should break the fever, but apart from that, extra fluids and lots of cuddles." When he tickles her chin she babbles delightedly; Grizz thinks, she will always have a soft spot for Gordie.

Sam breathes a sigh of relief.  _Don't know what we'd do without you, Gordie._

He blushes, slightly. "It's nothing," he says. "Anything for my favourite girl."

 

The group texts light up all of their phones.

Grizz fishes his out of his pocket, frowns at the screen. Gordie and Sam do the same, Becca's arms full but she peers over Sam's shoulder.

It's from Luke. An audio message, thirty-seven seconds long.

 

 _what the fuck luke,_ Kelly texts.

Gwen adds,  _how did you get this?????_

Three dots appear, then stop. Then,  _campbell likes to boast, i guess._

 

-

 

After the first week Luke played for West Ham High School's football team, Grizz went home and told his mom he finally had a reason to stay.

She laughed at him, but kindly, and ruffled his hair and told him she was happy for him—it was no secret between them that Grizz kind of hated school. 

His dad rolled his eyes and disappeared back behind the paper. That's dad, for you.

Then he invited Luke back one day and he thinks something must have changed because his mom said, "Oh, Grizz," and winked at him, and agreed with him that yes, Luke was pretty cool.

 

Luke is resourceful. He's not the best quarterback in the world, not by a long shot; the NFL won't be talent-scouting anytime soon and see Luke and go,  _ah yes, there's the next Brady_. But none of that matters anymore in a town that has no rules and is kind of on the brink of starvation. What matters is how you treat others; how others look at you.

Luke has it. It took him a while to realise that but, he has now.

The recording is gold. Actual fucking gold dust. Grizz almost kisses his phone screen when he plays it, three, four times in that medical centre.

 _What's it saying?_ Sam asks Gordie, whose eyes are the size of dinner plates.

"It's Campbell," he replies. His hands move warily; Grizz realises that they are shaking, slightly. "It's—jeez. Luke caught him. He recorded him admitting to it."

Blonde eyebrows knit together.  _Admitting to what?_

"The election," Grizz says, and Sam's face smoothes out and this slow, dawning realisation sets across him like the sun. "That Allie had nothing to do with it." He pauses, resisting the urge to flinch or throw up or anything like that. Oh, Luke. You clever bastard.

 

When Grizz was about to turn seventeen, he and Luke made a pact:  _each other's backs on the field, yeah?_ They shook hands and spat on it.

It's not quite the field anymore, as far as circumstances go. But it feels the same in his heart. It feels like forever.

 

-

 

**two.**

 

He doesn't sleep all night, instead sits up with everybody in Gordie's house and watches a stupid eighties movie about a slumber party that gets disturbed by an escaped mental patient, or something. He doesn't really know. His mind is buzzing, he is so wired; caffeine and lack of sleep and pure, sugary adrenaline.

Becca leaves to put Eden to bed. Kelly says, _I'll go with you_ , and everybody exchanges a look as the door shuts.

Altogether they go through ten bottles of supermarket tequila. It tastes disgusting, but halfway through the second bottle Grizz stops noticing.

None of them really talk. All Grizz can feel is tension, pounding through his temples, pulsing with every beat of his heart. Possibilities are blossoming in his mind like flowers—where they go from here, which path they take. Everything Campbell could do to them, everything he's already done.

There's a knock at the door at midnight. Gordie gets up, opens it. "Luke," he says, gently. "Hey, dude."

Luke wanders in. Surveys the scene with a frown and sighs. "Looks like you all celebrated well."

"We owe you one, Luke," Gwen says, half-heartedly raising an empty glass. Her hair's down, makeup smudged. "Come inside, there's kind of a lot of alcohol."

"First sensible thing I've heard all night," he smirks, empty-eyed. 

Sam is sat in the plush armchair with his head on his chin, focused on the television screen. The bodies sprawled across the floor and the bed take up a lot of room so Grizz stands up and slips into the chair, next to Sam: they barely fit, but the warmth of him makes it better. Sam's head lolls straight onto Grizz's chest, all of his body turns in; two puzzle pieces, made for each other. "So," Grizz says. "How'd you do it?"

"Carefully," he says, acerbic. He's already halfway through his first bottle. "Lexie is gonna crack. She hates it as much as we do." Disbelief ripples through everyone, but they're all too hammered to react properly. "Campbell was trying to talk her into toeing the line and—well." The swig he takes makes his face crumple but he swallows it down like a champ. "He hits her, y'know. She's fucked when she runs out of makeup."

Gwen makes a funny noise. "I need a bucket."

"Bathroom's through there," Gordie says.

Luke shrugs. "I'll try and get some more," he says. "Videos, maybe. Enough to convince people."

"Good idea." Grizz has a hand in Sam's hair, tracing lazy strokes back and forth that make Sam shudder slightly and sink into him deeper. Nobody comments on the way they are sat, the way they're clinging to each other like the world might end if they let go. Blame it on the alcohol in the morning. "Maybe we can do this peacefully. If enough of the town turns against them, properly, they'll be forced to step down."

Sam says, quietly,  _good luck forcing Campbell to do anything._

From the floor, Mickey shakes his head. "I guess you'd know," he says, and drains a half-full bottle in one pained gulp.

 

-

 

Sam told Grizz a story, one night. It was before this whole not-rebellion started; back when they were enjoying the fact that they were both still alive, and that the world hadn't fallen apart because of a baby or a woodland expedition. They were in bed and tired and coming down from a very-high high, when Sam said,  _I never thought I'd have this._

Grizz looked at him, chest heaving. "No?"

 _No_ , he shook his head.  _Especially not here._

The duvet was bunched around them, dark blue-and-green checked sheets tossed sideways. Grizz sat up and pulled it back over them to keep out the draught that kept sneaking under the door. "Come on, with a smile like that? Nobody could resist." Even in the dark he was obscenely beautiful, Sam; the lines of his hips like cut glass, his eyes soft and lovely.

Sam smirked but brushed it off.  _Do you remember when I came out,_ he asked. 

He remembers; it had spread through the school pretty quickly, fizzled out just as fast. One of those uninteresting rumours which wasn't juicy enough to linger. "Yeah, vaguely. Back in freshman year?"

He nodded.  _It was easier than I thought it would be. Nobody gave me shit for it. Except Campbell._

Grizz's stomach did a flip. Something hot and angry ran in his veins, washed him through.

 _He does this thing,_ he continued,  _where he grabs the back of my neck._ Sam reached out and guided Grizz's hand, brought it to his nape. It took a second or two but then Grizz felt them: crescents, dug into the soft flesh, shallow like acne scars.  _He does that a lot. He likes letting me know he's older than me. Stronger._

"He's not stronger," Grizz said. "You came out to everybody and didn't even blink. That's not exactly weak, Sam." Unspoken:  _it's not like I can do it._

 _I know that now_. He sighed, into Grizz's shoulder. 

"Yeah?"

He nodded.  _Yeah._

 

-

 

He watches Lexie talk on the green outside the church. Obviously, town meetings have changed location: the church is a heap of blackened wreckage, the walls eaten away by fire. Instead, she is in the bandstand; Harry stands beside her, looking a lot thinner than he used to. Campbell is also there, of course. Like he always is, like he always will be.

It's a strange one, this meeting. There's a funny feeling in the air.

Campbell steps forward; everybody holds their breath. It's an instinctive reaction. Campbell equals bad things. Equals bloodshed and bad decisions.

The crowd is  _so big_. Grizz sometimes forgets just how many people live in this town—hundreds, all of them young and wide-eyed and just trying to survive.

A name gets called out—

 _Luke has something to tell you all._ That smile breaks out across his face, the one which makes his nose snarl up like a dog that's just spotted its prey.  _Don't you, Luke?_

 

Luke's face is impassionate but Grizz can read him even from the eighth or ninth row: somewhere inside he is screaming.

He doesn't bother trying to deny it.

 

Grizz calls Helena as soon as it's all over, fingers white around the receiver. "Where is he?"

Her voice is thick, crackly. She's sniffing back tears when she says, "He's here."

"Wha—" he frowns, breathless, "Campbell let him go?"

The signal cuts out, for a second. Comes back to life again and Helena's voice comes through in separate sound bytes. "I know," she says. "I can't figure it out, either."

Grizz's eyes close, his mouth pressed together to stop him from crying out or saying something he'll regret. Who knows if Campbell is listening in; he seems to exist everywhere, in the cracks in the walls or under the bed. " _Fuck._ Can you get him— no, I— can you tell him I'm sorry?"

" _Grizz_ ," Helena deadpans.

She hangs up.

 

-

 

He found out. Of  _course_ he found out. He was an idiot to think he could get away with  _this_ , with fucking with Campbell.

He can't help himself from saying  _I'm sorry_ _I'm sorry I'm sorry_ , almost incoherent. 

Luke looks at him, calmly, gently, says,  _it's not like this is your fault_ , because this is Luke and he's grown up more in these past few months than anyone, really. He says,  _it was my idea,_ but both of them know he did it for Grizz and their little crusade and fuck; now Campbell's onto them. They've just confirmed his every suspicion.

Something must be coming. Luke spends all the time he has with Helena and then she's at work, and he can't be there because it's against the rules—not that they're really a thing, anymore. So he grabs his phone and sends round a group text,  _meeting @ helena's, 5pm_ and Grizz has never felt so fucking scared in his entire life.

 

There's a double rap on the door, and somebody pads in. 

"Hey," Gordie says. His hair's short; clearly done with kitchen scissors in a bathroom mirror. 

Everybody is there, in Helena's living room. Everybody who is still Team Allie, though that name doesn't quite inspire the same confidence as it once did. Not now their plan is lying in tatters around their ankles and every set of footsteps crossing the lawn makes them tense.

"Hi," Kelly says. She doesn't move.

Grizz is pacing in the corner, wearing the carpet thin. Luke's sitting on the couch and his leg is trembling, his nails bitten down to the quick; all the colour has drained from this face. Helena's sitting beside him, arms wrapped around his shoulders.

"I'm so sorry, Luke," Gordie says. He's been crying, they can tell by the jagged edge to his voice. "I don't— how did he even find out?"

Luke doesn't say anything.

Grizz  _should_ say something. But he doesn't, because nobody is in the mood for a rallying speech or a battle cry, and that is all he really knows. 

So Gordie redirects his gaze towards Grizz and asks, "Okay, dude, what do we do now?"

It shouldn't hurt like it does. All the eyes in the room turn to him, all the attention and it— imagine a bunch of needles sinking into your chest, down to the organs. That's kind of what it feels like to have the world look at you and ask,  _what next._

This is Grizz; he has never been known to run from anything until now.

"Why are you asking me?" he says.

A dozen pairs of eyebrows all frown in unison.

Kelly says, "Because this has been your rebellion," like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "like, your little project from the beginning."

He sits upright. "No it hasn't."

"Um," Mickey begins—he's another one who has sprouted like a weed, his hair falling in lazy curls over his forehead. "It kind of has, Grizz."

Everybody's nodding. He chokes, a little; this is not something he anticipated, not really. Back during those meetings in Sam's dining room when everything was innocent and  _what ifs_ , he spoke just as little as anybody else. Why does it have to be  _his_ , why do they even  _trust_ him with it—

"Nono _nono._ " He feels tiny. Like he's stuck under a weight, squirming to get free. "No, I said from the start that I'm not a leader. I'm not Allie, okay, I can't— I can't take responsibility for everything that's happened. I don't have an answer for everything, shit, for  _anything_ right now."

Gordie peers at him with those wise eyes. "You _are_ a leader, Grizz. Look at the expedition, you found us land—"

"I walked through the woods, Gordie." It really is that simple. "I walked in circles through the woods until we happened to stumble across a field. And even then, I lost my fucking compass and made us all late back home and worried the shit out of everybody here, and you're saying that I'm a  _leader?_ " He scoffs so hard, Sam flinches beside him. "I couldn't lead a fucking  _conga_."

"That's not true," Gwen pipes up. "You did a good job out there and you know it."

Shit, he believed that once.

But then the church burned down and he stood in that kitchen and said,  _we need to figure out what the next steps are_ and yeah, okay. Maybe this is his fault.

His throat hurts. "That was— that was before."

Helena's pissed, understandably. Deservedly. "Before what?" she snaps.

"Before it got serious," Luke finally speaks. There's a stillness in his eyes, like the surface of a pond: he accepted his fate a long time ago. "Before we got caught."

"Exactly," Grizz nods. "And the fact that Luke hasn't been arrested yet means that Campbell's planning something. He'll be talking Lexie into something right now, and Harry's too doped up to give a crap."

Kelly's face goes all squished-up and sad and she has those big blue eyes, an innate sweetness to them that she will never shake despite all the things she's accomplished. "Right," she says, impatient, "so we haven't got long."

"We need to move before he does," Gordie adds.

"That great," she nods. "So— _what_."

She's looking directly at Grizz. He thinks, she can probably see the wallpaper through his head with how her eyes are burning into him. "I don't  _know_ , Kell," he says; his voice is loud, his vision's gone all cloudy with tears and this is the last thing he needs right now. 

"We  _need_ a leader, Grizz," she says.

It's not wrong: they do. He nods, relieved that someone's said it in spite of the unceasing, sick churning of his gut. "It can't be me."

Mickey frowns, "why not?"

When he shakes his head it snaps too far forward, like he's overestimated the weight of it; everything feels light, airy. Six months ago he had prayed that this new universe would let him escape all of his old problems but all it's done is harbour a shit ton of new ones and he can't do this, he can't tell people. Everyone already fucking knows but he just  _can't_ —

 _Because of me,_ Sam says. He stands up, touches Grizz's arm and he feels like paper, nerves raw and frayed. He almost jerks away but doesn't.

Nobody says anything. Nobody even breathes.

 

(If a hole were to open up and swallow him whole, it would honestly be a God-sent miracle. In fact, if a bolt of lightning crashed down from the white sky and lit him alight, Grizz would roll up to the doors of heaven and say,  _thank fuck, y_ _ou timed that perfectly.)_

 

Gordie says, carefully, "What do you mean, Sam?"

Sam closes his eyes and breathes out. His hand reaches down and laces silently with Grizz's, squeezes:  _sorry._

 _Campbell knows what Grizz's weak spots are_ , he signs with his free hand. It's a simple enough explanation and everybody gets it. He tells the story about that day he went upstairs and Campbell was there, holding Eden and all the girls in the room go pale; Grizz is crying, silently. Just—lone little tears.  _And, I think it's fair to say that nobody knows Campbell like I do. But I have Eden, and she's my top priority, over this—whatever it is, this_ rebellion _. Campbell knows about_ _—_ another squeeze, another apology— _about_ us.  _And he'll use that to his advantage._

The room settles, then. Nobody reacts, and it occurs to Grizz that this is perhaps the worst-kept secret since JFK and Marilyn but whatever, they have bigger things to worry about right now.

 

-

 

 _Okay, so_ , Sam says the next morning.

Grizz rolls over and pulls the blanket over his head. "Too early," he groans. "Later."

 _Grizz._ He's using his serious voice, the voice he used to tell Grizz to eat something after he got dizzy and had to sit down the other day.

"Ugh." He sits up. The sun is really in his eyes—white winter sun, angel-bright—and he still feels nauseous after yesterday's events. Like he's kicked over Pandora's box and all the messed-up shit in the universe just escaped and for some reason took base in New Ham. "Morning, asshole."

Sam nearly smiles, eyes going soft.  _We need to talk._ His hair's all stuck up in tufts and it's unbearably cute.

Grizz really wants to kiss him but he doesn't; he just puts his hands on his lap instead. "We really don't."

 _We do_. His own hands stick on the words, three seconds behind his brain which is struggling to form a coherent sentence at the minute.  _I just—I'm so sorry. I outed you, that's—that's fucking unforgivable. All those times you've told me that you aren't ready and you're, you're scared and I just told the entire town like it was my decision, I'm—_

The guilt in his eyes and the lines of his face is so genuine, it makes Grizz's heart hurt. "Hey, hey," he says, hands reaching up to catch Sam's, to stop them from moving at a hundred miles an hour. "It's okay."

Sam pouts; he looks like a puppy.  _It's not, though._

"It really is." The room is a mess, clothes are strewn everywhere—this is what happens when two teenage boys are given responsibility. "I mean, let's be honest. I was never going to do it myself."

 _That's not the point_ , he grumbles, pummeling a fist into Grizz's shoulder. It's like, the weakest punch ever, even for someone who isn't trying.  _I'm really sorry._

I don't deserve you, Grizz thinks. His fingers reach upwards and trace the curve of Sam's cheekbone, playing join-the-dots with those freckles and that was the bravest he's ever seen Sam, the most beautiful.

Sam smiles at him, and waits.

This time Grizz kisses first.

 

-

 

"Hey," he says, cornering Sam at the sink. It's full of suds and hot water, his sleeves are pulled up to the elbow. "Here. For Eden."

Sam's forehead twitches then he looks down at the offer: a toy rabbit, all plush and the ears are different fabrics so it looks patchworked and cutesy.  _Aw,_ he says, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.  _That's adorable._

"I found it in the supermarket," Grizz continues. "Thought it would, y'know. Make a good Christmas present."

 _Christmas?_ His eyes fly to the calendar hanging above the microwave and—oh shit, yeah.  _Oh._

Grizz chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to Sam's head. "I know, I nearly forgot too."

 

-

 

Allie is sitting on the edge of her bed with wet hair. Her skin is bright red, presumably from a shower.

"Hi," Grizz says.

She looks up; her eyes are red, too. "Grizz," she croaks. "What are you doing here?"

"Will called me." The phone had buzzed and buzzed until Grizz finally picked up, and Will's voice—it didn't sound like him. It sounded like someone had broken every bone in his body. "He said you'd need someone. You look  _awful_ , Allie, are you alright?"

"I was kinda thinking  _he'd_  need you," she remarks. This doesn't sound like Allie either, at least not the one he remembers. Before the woods, before Lexie. He's never seen her this vulnerable. "They let me go. Obviously."

He frowns. "What happened?"

Her knees are drawn up to her chest, fists wrapped around them. Her knuckles are so clenched and white, they might pop out of their sockets at any moment. "It was Campbell."

That name carries too much power, too much fear. Grizz doesn't move, not even a hair, as if the room is full of static or he's wired up to explosives. He just waits.

She takes a deep breath; she's usually a pretty crier but now there's snot all over her face and her cheeks are on fire. Some sort of purpley-blue shadow is fading into existence on the left side of her jaw, swelling like a bee sting. "He—he wanted to show me that he was in charge, y'know? That he could—that all of us are powerless, in the end, compared to him. And that this rebellion is a fucking pointless waste of time."

Grizz swallows and sits down next to her. It's—a lot. He can feel the heat coming off of her, and hopes she hasn't burnt herself trying to scrub off the feeling of helplessness. "Drink this," he eventually says, handing her the bottle he brought: some sort of labelless white liquor. Could be paint thinner, for all he knows. Who cares at this point.

She laughs, raw. "You came prepared."

"What?" he asks, reaching for light, failing. "It's cheaper than therapy."

"No such thing anymore," she shrugs and drinks. Grizz wants to hold her, hug her but not right now. The main thing he wants now is to feel his hands around Campbell's neck, pressing down to the jugular. It scares him shitless, that this is what he's become. This is what New Ham has made him into.

 

-

 

She goes home and gets changed. Grizz offers to come with her but she says,  _I'd rather be alone, thanks_ and he understands.

He goes over to check on her a few hours later. She's in an oversized t-shirt and baggy sweatpants, her hair pulled up into a scraggly bun on top of her head. The bags beneath her eyes are so purple, they could be bruises. That air she had about her, the one which made her look like a leader, has long since evaporated.

"Hey," she says, voice dead. Then she does a double-take and, " _oh._ Hello there."

Eden blinks at her from Grizz's arms. She extends a chubby arm and launches her teddy over into Allie's lap.

Grizz huffs and shakes his head; _wow, you aren't Becca's daughter at all, are you_. "That means nice to meet you too," he smiles, "in Eden."

 

Allie says, "Grizz, this world doesn't make sense anymore," and her head is in her hands and when he looks closer, there are yellowing bruises all down her arms.

He says, "I don't think it ever," and closes his eyes. Eden senses the mood change; she burrows herself into Grizz and starts sniffling. "Where's Will? He sounded really bad on the phone."

She tenses up beside him, doesn't say anything.

"Allie?" he frowns.

"He, um—" The light shifts and there are bruises on her neck, too. "He stole Clark's phone to call you. I don't know how, I think it was when Clark was—" Her voice trails off. 

Grizz swallows. "Okay."

"The Guard took him into the woods," she eventually manages. "He could be anywhere."

 

-

 

They all get a text the next day. From Harry, of all people.

 _Be careful_ , it says.  _Campbell kept a gun._

 

Sam taps Grizz on the shoulder and shows it him. 

"Well, shit," Grizz says. "Even he's coming to his senses. Something really must be up."

 _Not quite the point I was trying to make,_ Sam says,  _but I guess you're not wrong._

 

-

 

**three.**

 

Luke says, "I never meant for it all to fall apart."

"Sure," Grizz deadpans, through gritted teeth. "I bet." He isn't sure why he's so angry; why he can't do what Luke did and keep a calm head when he knows the world is crumbling around his ears. 

He doesn't flinch. " _Grizz_. This is the only way we can fix anything. This is the only way we can make sure they don't do this again." (He means:  _this is the only way we can keep people safe._ )

In that moment, he looks just like Luke again, from the old universe. All light humour and compassionate eyes.

"Trust me," Luke says, calmly. Then he closes his eyes and gives up, because it's  _scary._ "No matter what, I'm on your side. I'm sick of all this double-crossing, sneaking around. It's exhausting." 

The match flickers in his hand. Everything smells overwhelmingly of gasoline.

"Please come with me before you drop that thing," Grizz says. Every hair is upright, skin taut: the fumes are so strong, they could catch at any second. "Don't be an idiot."

Luke snickers and tilts his hair. "I'm not suicidal just yet." He casts his eyes around the room. Family photos grin back at him from the mantelpiece, frozen in time. "I'll miss this place, not gonna lie."

Everything seems to be on fire, nowadays. "Let's just not make burning things down a habit," he quips, folding his arms across his chest.

"It works, though, doesn't it," Luke says. "There's got to be, like, some historical rebellion where it worked."

Grizz shrugs. "Great Fire of Moscow, in 1912. They burned the whole city to stop Napoleon from getting in."

"Fuck's sake," Luke sighs, but he's grinning. The flame crackles in his eyes like two tiny little suns, glimmering orange. "Of course you'd know that."

 

-

 

Before Luke dropped the match and set New Ham alight, there was a meeting.

It went something like this:

"No fucking _way_ ," Kelly snapped, cheeks flushed. "That doesn't solve  _anything_."

"It gets rid of the only prison in the town," Luke said, tucking his hands into his pockets. "It gets rid of The Guard's headquarters. It sends a message;"

"It's not the  _only_ prison, you idiot." She was wearing medical scrubs, there was dried blood on the collar. "You can make a cell out of anything if you try hard enough."

Gordie was sitting on the kitchen counter, hands braced against the edge. "Nobody else has a cellar," he said. His eyes were trained on the floor, refusing to look anywhere else. "And—it's the only place big enough to hold more than one person."

"Grizz, come on," Kelly pleaded, turning her head. "We can't become  _them_ to win this." Her voice was whiny, desperate, like there was something she meant in it. 

Becca huffed. "Why does it matter," she asked; thinking only of Eden, as is her life, "as long as we win?"

Kelly let out a scoff and slumped back in her seat. "Jesus.  _No._ And that's the end of that."

(Spoiler alert: it wasn't the end of anything.)

 

-

 

The match burns down quickly; it's long and skinny and super dried out from months spent in the kitchen drawer. 

Grizz is so, so tired. Everybody knows he is close to snapping but no one knows what to do about it. Luke is—they have a specific kind of relationship, Grizz and Luke. They understand each other in the way that only teammates can: each other's tells, which direction the other will move when provoked. Years of studying each other on the football field and they know the tug and flow of how they play their games. This is their team.

It makes sense that these two start the fire.

 

A breath escapes him like a leak in a balloon. "How the fuck did this become our only option," he says, knowing the answer.

Luke's laugh is humourless. He's the one holding the fire, after all. "Campbell took away  everything else." He's the one holding the grenade, finger on the pin.

"You better drop that thing quickly," Grizz says. "It's nearly all gone."

It's not a suicide mission, not at all. They're both close to the door, they can both run and be out of the house before it even hits the floor. But the ugly feeling is there, churning his stomach: there is  _so much_ gasoline. The air's so thick with fumes, Grizz can taste them.

Luke's shoulders slump, his arm starts to shake. "You ready to go?" 

Grizz nods.

A pause. The air shimmers. Luke closes his eyes briefly. "Right," he says. "Three, two, one."

 

The millisecond after they both get out, the house erupts.

People start filtering out of their homes to watch. Perhaps they notice the light, first: or rather, how the smoke blocks out the sun. Thick billows of it, blacker than the pits of hell. And beneath it, the fire—crimson and gold, the colours of dawn. Grasping upwards at the sky and the invisible stars.

Grizz shields his eyes from the brightness of it and thinks about his mother, for some reason; about his hamster and his dog and his teachers and everybody he's ever known. He thinks about that time he burnt his leg when he was a kid after knocking a cup of coffee off the kitchen counter; his mom dealt with it, like she could deal with anything. His skin had sizzled and peeled, turned pink against her fingers and it had hurt almost as much as this does, now. He closes his eyes but the flames play on the insides of his eyelids, and all he can see is his mom's calm capable hands slowly turning black—

Luke shakes his shoulder. "Come on," he says, face pale, mouth tight. "We have to get moving."

So they do. They run as fast as they can. They stay alive.

(It doesn't stop Grizz dreaming about fire for the next few weeks of his life.)

 

-

 

Sam's house is at the other end of town, thankfully, far away enough for the air to stay crisp and clean. You can taste the smoke if you stay still for long enough, but the sky hasn't darkened yet and the apocalypse doesn't feel quite as inevitable.

They get very, very drunk and pass out on the couch. The ultimate coping technique.

 

When he wakes up, Luke is still out cold. Sam is there, standing over them; it makes Grizz start a little, before his body rolls and he bites back the little contents of his stomach.

"Where's Eden?" he asks immediately; priorities, after all.

Sam says,  _with Becca_ _, upstairs._ Then he cocks his head and narrows his eyes and says,  _I saw what you did._

He swallows, mouth dry. "Of course you did."

 _Jesus, Grizz,_ Sam sighs.  _All I can do is worry about you._

"I know," he says, sadly. "I'm sorry."

It strikes him, all of a sudden, in the desperate way he can feel himself looking at Sam; he is all he has. Sam has Eden and Becca and Campbell (but not really). Grizz has—no one. Nobody else. He leans forward and presses a dry kiss to Sam's cheek, trying not to breathe too hard because he definitely stinks of vodka. "Thank you," he sighs.

Sam's eyes are soft, dull. Sad.  _Come on_ , he signs.  _I'll get you some water._

 

-

 

Maybe they used a little too much gasoline.

American houses are built separately for this very reason: fire safety. Flames can't spread if there's nothing for them to burn.

But this is New Ham. This is a new universe, isn't it? Of course nothing would go to plan. Of course Grizz would poke his head through the curtains, and blink, and everything would turn so orange it's like he just came face-to-face with the centre of the solar system.

 

"Get Eden," he says. Sam can't hear the urgency in his voice but it's all over his face, it's in the lines of his forehead and the way his lips curl around her name.

 _Why,_ he demands, stepping forward. He grabs the curtain and pulls it back,  _what's—_

Suddenly he is glowing. The light floods the room and everything is orange, everything is so fucking  _hot_ and his eyes are watering and the glass is starting to get warm.  _Grizz,_ he whispers,  _what the hell did you do?_

 

-

 

The fire rolls through like a storm. Crackling, bright and glorious; an enormous mass of light coming in through the atmosphere.

They're at the edge of the forest, away from the buildings. Grizz shields his eyes, smoke clings to his clothes and his eyelashes: "It's not following the wind," he observes, weirdly. "It shouldn't be spreading."

" _Really_ ," Becca drawls. The space under her nose is black with soot.

Sam is holding Eden. He doesn't hold her any differently—she's still pressed to his chest, face turned into him, away from the commotion.  _Where is Campbell,_ he asks.

"I don't know." Allie's hands are wrapped around herself, holding herself, knuckles white. She looks very old, very tired, dust and fatigue settling into her hair and every line on her face. "And frankly, I don't care."

 

Later, they would learn that Campbell had indeed been planning something.

Later, the residents of New Ham would see a thin young woman stagger out of the last house to burn, tears streaming down her face. Allie would lurch forward and scream,  _Elle, over here_ , and nobody would blink because there is no point questioning things anymore. It's not like there are any answers.

None of this, of course, was clear from the start. At the start there was only Luke's house, and the flames which crept upon it, and everybody running down and down to see.

 

Elle says, "He was going to take Eden. He said, he was going to take what's his?"

Sam's face changes. Like, physically transforms. His eyes harden and the set of his jaw, the way it aligns; Grizz has never seen that before.  _He's never going to touch her._

Beside him, Becca stiffens. "Elle," she says, "where is he now?"

"I don't know," she cries, and it becomes clearer then, more than ever, just how Campbell breaks everything he touches. 

 

(Grizz pulls Becca aside later on and demands, point blank, "What did he mean by  _what's his_."

It takes a moment but when Becca looks at him, she is pure fire. She is burning hotter and angrier than the church did, than the world is now. "What do you think he meant, Grizz?"

"For fuck's sake, Becs," he breathes.

Eden is between them, wrapped around her mom. She looks so small.

 _Ah,_ Grizz thinks, stomach sinking.  _That's where those eyes are from.)_

 

-

 

It's late, the moon is up. The trees are dark as they pick their way through; the clearing they always sleep in has seen so much abuse it is almost perfectly flat, ground springy with trampled reeds. Sometimes Grizz sees eyes in the distance, silver circles flickering like candleflame but nothing ever happens, so he doesn't worry anymore. If they're going to be eaten by hungry wolves in their sleep, they probably deserve it.

Gwen kneels to put the kindling together and Mickey looks around for anything that could become shelter.

Bean pulls out a couple of joints, lights up. "Want one?"

"Terrible habit," Grizz deadpans, "should be on full alert." He takes Bean's, instead, and blows smoke rings into the air.

 

They go off to find more wood, Gwen and Mick and Bean: not a euphemism, the fire's genuinely low. They probably want to talk about what to do next, anyway, out of Gordie's earshot so he doesn't get skittish. Gordie is like, brave but not in the way everybody else is. Everyone else can shoot guns and burn things, but Gordie delivered an entire fucking _baby_ so beat that, dickheads.

 

"You hate coming out here," Grizz says, feeding the fire carefully. 

They're sat a foot or so away from each other, knees pulled up to their chests. Not quite relaxed, but hypnotised: Grizz's cheeks are going pink from the heat but it's easier to look at the way the flames dance than at Gordie's disapproving stare. That burns more than any fire could.

Gordie blinks. "Being in a forest in the dark, while the world's ending. You'd be mad to enjoy it."

"Then why are you here?" he asks, straight-faced. 

A beat passes, a flicker. Something soars overhead like a comet. "I'm here because that's where you are," Gordie admits, "and Sam asked me to keep an eye on you." Then, "Listen, it's not a big deal, but from what I've been seeing, I think you're having a small breakdown."

Grizz rolls his eyes. "That's weird. I wonder why."

"I would think it's because of Campbell, and not knowing what's going to happen."

"God, dude." It's so freaking  _cold_ —winter surely wasn't this cold, back in the old universe. It's that bitter wind that bites down to your bones and numbs you from the inside out. "Do you really not get sarcasm?"

Gordie shoots him a look. "Do  _you_?" He reaches into his coat, pulls out a bottle. "Drink this. It'll warm you up."

Whatever whiskey it is, it's dark and brown and smells like bad decisions. "Didn't have you down as a hard liquor dude."

"I'm really not," he says. "But it keeps out the chill."

He's not wrong. It burns on the way down, makes Grizz screw his face up all tight. "I don't need looking after," he argues. "Sam has enough on his plate at the minute. Everybody does. The town is literally  _on fire_."

Gordie tosses a leaf onto the pile. "I'm not here in my capacity as your babysitter, Grizz, I'm here as your friend. And your makeshift therapist, cause, y'know—"

"You think I need a _therapist_?" Grizz echoes. It's— _what._

Gordie's shoulders rise and fall in this humble little gesture that makes Grizz's teeth itch. "I mean, if what I saw out there is anything to go by, then yeah."

It shouldn't be insulting but it kind of is. Campbell is the one in need of actual psychological help; pulling the wings off of birds, beating his girlfriend up. Making Sam's life a living hell at every opportunity. It makes Grizz's blood boil, the stories Sam would tell him at night, sometimes. "Christ, dude. You read a couple SAT textbooks in the med centre and suddenly you're Marvin Monroe? Give me a break."

"SAT textbooks and  _Psychology for Dummies_ ," Gordie says. "I'd say that makes me more qualified than most."

Grizz stares at him. "Are you kidding?"

He pulls a book from his bag: black and yellow, dog-eared. The spine long cracked and broken in. "Who needs a PhD when you've got this baby," Gordie deadpans, and suddenly they're both laughing. The air clears; Grizz is laughing so hard, they're in the middle of the woods and everything is so fucking _ridiculous_.

"Go on, then, doc," he sighs. "Lay it on me. Tell me all about how I'm gay because I hated my father, and I've repressed some weird shit from childhood or something. That's what Freud would say."

Gordie grimaces. "Freud was a sex pest." The pages flutter open, barely legible in the firelight. 

"And a misogynist," Grizz nods.

They sit in silence for a bit. Well, as silent as the woods can be—crickets chirp inharmoniously in the background, a tuneless choir. Grizz thinks about Sam, like how he always does when his mind wanders: thinks about Sam and the way Campbell's hand had curled around his neck, held him tightly. God. He doesn't realise he's grinding his teeth until his gums start to hurt.

 

"Come on then," Gordie says, suddenly. "Let's do this."

"Do what?" Grizz says.

"About three years worth of therapy in three minutes," he replies. 

Grizz looks down at his hands. His knuckles are still faintly purple, haloed in red. "No such thing as therapy anymore." He thinks of Allie, of her burning hot skin and fingerprint bruises. 

"Okay, well, I'll take the easy route," Gordie argues; he's turned his body round to face Grizz's, no longer so curled-up and defensive. This is the Gordie from before the whole shitshow: open, kind-eyed. "I'll do what every therapist avoids doing. I'll give you all the answers."

"Answers to what?"

"Let's start with this—" A finger jabs at a page in the book entitled  _power theories_. "Why did you leave The Guard?"

It comes out of nowhere. Grizz doesn't have an answer prepared; no powerful quote he can reel off in place of a real, honest explanation. "Why did I choose to leave a tyrannical organisation, that's a headscratcher."

Gordie groans:  _come on, dude, work with me._ "The Guard were becoming power-crazy before Allie and Will were arrested. You said it yourself, they were talking crap about Allie before you left to go searching for farmland. You had more power than most in the town and yet you gave it up. Why?"

Baring himself in front of anybody that isn't Sam feels weird. "I don't know. It didn't feel right."

"You don't take crap, Grizz, if you were really worried, you'd have left ages ago." Gordie waves a dismissive hand. "No. It was so you could have a go at real power. You started this whole rebellion so you could finally be in charge for once, and you could tell them what to do."

That—stings. He thinks, for some reason, about all the people they've lost in New Ham. They way that snakebite girl had looked before she breathed out and was done. "You can't actually think that."

Gordie shrugs. "I know it for sure. Congratulations," A new chapter, the pages snap. "You've just finished your first year of therapy."

"I wanted to do right by people," Grizz argues. "I saw an opportunity, it wasn't about power."

"It might not have been  _just_ about power, but—"

He's fucking incredulous. "It wasn't  _at all_ about power."

"It was," Gordie says, final. "Second year, second question. Wh—"

Their eyes won't meet; or, more accurately, Gordie won't look at him. His eyelashes cast long, spidery shadows onto his cheeks. Grizz lets out a humourless laugh and it's so harsh, the campfire flinches. "Did Sam put you up to this?" he interrupts, voice raw. The heat has dried his throat to ash.

"What do you care?"

"I care because I love him." The words come out singularly, icy cold, broken. Spoken like he's holding Gordie down and trying to drill them into his skull. "I care because I'm worried about him. I care because  _his brother's a psychopath."_

Gordie, the smug prick, looks satisfied. His lips curve up at the edges. "There we go, that's year two done. And for the record, Sam's noticed that you're drinking more and barely eating and he asked me to make sure you do the opposite of both of those things tonight." The bottle of whiskey sits between them, laughing at them from the soil. "I failed, but—considering the circumstances, I think it was necessary."

"I  _eat_ ," Grizz argues, but it sounds feeble. Gordie hears it and raises an eyebrow.

"Really," he drawls. "The point is, you're so worried about him that you aren't looking after yourself, and everybody can see it. Last question."

This isn't a surprise. Grizz knows, intellectually, that Sam's heart is bigger than the Betelgeuse star and just as warm, yet his own is beating so fast he expects it to bruise against his ribs. 

It's all a bit much. "I'm going to sleep."

"Last question, Grizz." Now, all Gordie sounds like is  _tired._ "You can ask it yourself, if you want."

"Dude, I'm exhausted—" Exasperated, more like.

" _Grizz._ "

He sits back down with a thud. The anger in his eyes is so raw, it could give this campfire a run for its money. " _What._ "

His eyebrows fly up. "Ask me."

The silence between them stretches out, loaded with all the things he isn't saying, knows he isn't saying. He digs his nails into his palm and welcomes the distraction. Then, finally— "Why was I the only one who couldn't shoot Dewey."

It comes out as a statement, not a question. 

It feels like a revelation.

"There it is," Gordie sighs. His muscles relax and the tension floods out, away, into the hardness of the night. "Finally. How long has that been bugging you?"

He can hear himself breathing, sucking in great gulps of air like it's water; this might all be a dream. He kind of hopes it is. Things would be a lot easier if he could just wake up right now and be in Sam's bed, clinging to him like wet clothes. "Since it happened." He feels all weightless, hollow-boned: he thinks he's swaying slightly, like Gordie's an anchored magnet and he is metal shavings, loose in the wind. "Since I put the gun down."

Gordie shakes his head, almost asks for more details about that day but decides against it. "It means you're a decent human being," he suggests. "Not being able to murder someone in cold blood isn't exactly a character flaw, at least in my book."

"It wasn't cold blood." Blood is hot, metallic. Grizz dreamt about it again last night; bit his tongue, woke up with his mouth tasting of copper and it scared him shitless, just for a moment. "It was—justified." He doesn't sound convincing, not at all.

"What was it that Gandhi said," Gordie says, head tilted.

"An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind," Grizz sighs. Then he barks with laughter—heavy, self-deprecating. "Fucking Gandhi. He was an asshole, too. He killed his wife."

The fire shrinks a little, goes a deeper shade of orange. Gordie throws a stick on and sparks rain down onto them like a meteor shower.

"So," he asks, in that therapist voice, "you couldn't pull the trigger."

Grizz shrugs. "It felt too real. Talking about it was one thing but actually tying him up and pointing a gun at his head—" The  _please don't ask me about it_ hangs in the air like a time bomb, like a hand grenade. It's been months—it shouldn't still be such a touchy subject. It shouldn't feel so heavy in his heart like it does.

"But why has it upset you so much,  _not_ being able to do it?"

His knees are back up to his chest, nails digging trenches into the back of his hand. "Because what sort of leader am I," he says, quietly, "if I can't carry out basic justice?"

Fuck, the way Gordie tilts his head, turns the page like he's opening a safe—Grizz might as well be stretched out on a leather couch. "You do see yourself as a leader, then."

"Ugh, I don't  _know_ , Gordie." 

"I think you're a way better leader than you realise," he says. "You're sensible. People are drawn to you."

"So was Allie," Grizz counters. "Look how that turned out."

And Gordie scoffs, loud and brash. "Grizz, look, I— you—  _you actually did something._ " 

The wind picks up. Grizz peers at him, bemused.

"You were the only person who had the balls to stand up to Campbell like that," he continues. The sterile detachedness has gone, this is just _Gordie_ now. "And you underestimated him. You underestimated just how fucked up he was, like everybody else. That's what you did wrong. That's it. Not shooting Dewey, leaving The Guard— they just show that you're better than Campbell and Lexie and Harry in every possible way. And the fact you've been doubting that? It baffles me." The sound of his voice is the pressure of water in Grizz's ears: he thinks, he's been needing to hear this for a very long time. "For fuck's sake, Grizz. You had every opportunity to let this town corrupt you and you actively said  _no._ Then you stood up and took action and somehow made hope out of literally nothing. To comprehend the amount of  _strength_ that takes would be like trying to visualise the size of the universe."

Grizz tastes salt.

This is how he realises that he is crying.

He blinks, sniffs loudly. Then, like an afterthought: "I left The Guard because I wanted to have ultimate power?"

"That was a red herring," Gordie admits, sheepish. "To wind you up. The quickest way to honesty."

He tilts his head up. "You're such an  _asshole_."

"I know." He throws the book onto the fire; it explodes, engulfed in reds and yellows.

" _Such_ ," They lie back in unison, using their bags as pillows, "an  _asshole_."

Gordie smiles to himself; small, gentle, proud. The stars smile back at them from lightyears away. "I know."

 

-

 

Afterwards, once the fire has burned down, Grizz pads out into the dark edges of the clearing. He's wearing one of his old football blazers. Twigs snap beneath his feet like cracking knuckles.

(See, he is getting better.

Time heals all wounds.

One of these days he will be able to turn his face away from the fire without worrying about what lingers behind him.)

"Grizz," somebody says.

"Jesus sh— what the  _fuck_ , Bean," he hisses; okay, maybe he isn't  _totally_ okay. His body snaps all the way around, feeling like a tornado, like an inferno. "You can't just sneak up on people."

Bean looks very tiny in this light, or lack thereof. Shadows eat away at the edges of her shape, turn her into a hallucination or a ghost, not quite real. She says, "Sorry, sorry," but every muscle is so tense and poised it physically hurts. "I'm just making sure you're okay."

It takes the wind out of his sales a bit. It still surprises him, even now: people caring  _this_ much. "You can't just—" He wraps his arms around himself. "Are you under strict orders from Sam, too?"

She quirks an eyebrow at him. "You say it like it's a bad thing."

"It's not." Grizz's voice is so quiet; he finds it so much easier to be open around Bean, she has this understanding look to her eyes that says,  _I don't care what you say, I've seen worse_. "He likes me. We like each other." Each word falls, precise, like trees in a forest. "We  _love_ each other."

This, unsurprisingly, is not news to Bean.

Everybody seems to have figured it out before Grizz, huh?

He must look like he's been slapped, because Bean laughs, loud and beautiful. Birds scatter at the sound. "Nice one, Poirot. I'm glad you came to your senses." 

Grizz blinks. "You're not—?"

She studies him, just for a second. "Would you like me to act surprised?"

"Erm." This must be a stunning tableau. The two of them, teddy bears in six layers of clothing, facing each other off in a woodland clearing like reverse cowboys. "No. Not really. But thank you for offering."

 

-

 

He thinks it's around two a.m. 

Everyone is too jacked on adrenaline to sleep. In fact, the only person who is dead to the world is Eden, snoozing in Sam's arms. Grizz approaches them with a small, fond smile that only such a sight can inflict—even now, even after that certain revelation—and says, "Can I borrow you both for a second?"

 

He takes them into a thinner clearing and sits on a log and says, finally, "I love you."

Sam freezes, heart refusing to beat. His eyes are focused purely on Grizz's lips and he says it again, to be sure, "I love you," then closes his eyes and falls into the feeling that surrounds him like warm water because it's  _true_. "And I've put you both through so much crap and I'm sorry."

His arms are full; he can't reach out. Sam blinks, the stars burn spots onto his eyelids and then his lips are brushing against Grizz's just for a moment, ever so gently, and Grizz knows that this is  _I love you too._

 

-

 

It starts to rain at sunrise. Rain, not snow—weird, considering how cold it is.

The fire rages on in the background regardless, unaffected by the downpour. The makeshift shelter is just everyone's coats knotted together and tossed over a haphazardly-constructed tree branch frame but it works, it keeps them all dry. 

Suddenly he can't breathe. Suddenly there are hands around his lungs, squeezing, he can't fucking  _breathe_ —

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. The broken twigs dig into his knees and the rain soaks him through and he thinks he might be crying, he can't really tell.

Allie's knees are bumping against his. Her hands are on his shoulders like she doesn't care that he's a mess, that he's smearing wet soil and soot where he grabs for her arms and her hair to keep himself upright.

He can hear himself breathing, sucking in great gulps of air like he's drowning. The world is tilting, slightly; he hasn't eaten in days, his throat is dry. He can't open his eyes.

Her forehead rests against his, grounding him, keeping his safe. "Grizz," she says, quietly, sweet. "Where do we go from here?"

Grizz tilts his head up. Water hits his eyelids, face, the hollows of his neck.

"Home," he sighs, shakily.

She swipes under his eye with her thumb. She's only wearing a skirt and a jumper, the scrapes on her knees are freshly bleeding. "Home is burning."

 _Home is burning._ "No," he says, and he is so, so tired. He just wants to sleep. "Real home."

There must be something different in his voice; different from all the times they have spoken about it before because Allie is looking at him and she is positively glowing, like she believes him, like she trusts him. "You think that's possible?"

"Yeah," he nods. He is soaked through and he finally feels clean again. "I do."

 

-

 

**Author's Note:**

> spoilery notes: campbell is eden's father (we all saw this one coming lbr); will's fate is ~ambiguous~
> 
> this entire fic was really me experimenting with dialogue and character development, so if any of my characterisations were shaky, i'm very sorry! still kind of learning with this haha (also can you tell i don't like will oops). i also haven't proof-read this bc i cba so enjoy any typos :))))
> 
> and thank you to everybody who has stuck with this little series from the beginning, i owe you one <3
> 
> come and say hello on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bartonholla) and [tumblr](https://turnerkanes.tumblr.com)!


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